No One, Except Alfred
by Beautiful-Crying-Angel
Summary: The business with the Goat serial killer has Alfred exhausted, angry, and terrified Bruce will become the next victim. Bruce doesn't realize how much Alfred cares, or he never would have said those words: "There's no one to take me from." Tag episode 1x06, "Spirit of the Goat". NEW CHAPTER: tag 1x10, "Lovecraft." When a man threatens Bruce, Alfred decides to teach him a lesson.
1. Chapter 1: Spirit of the Goat

_**My first "Gotham" fanfic. I am loving the show! This is a one-shot tag to episode 1x06 "The Spirit of the Goat." (I meant to post this last week, but didn't get it typed up until now. =P There wasn't much of Bruce & Alfred in the latest episode.) These are my thoughts on a conversation Bruce & Alfred had. I hope you enjoy! **_

* * *

><p><span><strong>No One, Except Alfred<strong>

Alfred was worried. Bruce wasn't taking this Spirit of the Goat maniac seriously. He was distancing himself from the victims, from "them," but he was one of them. He was a potential target – the only son of a prominent, wealthy family, heir to a multimillion dollar enterprise. Alfred reminded him of this fact, but the boy shrugged it off. He was dismissive of a lot of things these days. Alfred couldn't put the matter from his mind quite so easily. He couldn't just brush off the fact that this crazed killer could come after Master Bruce.

"Maybe you should leave town for a little bit. Pop down to the lake house. You like it there, don't ya?" His proud English blood and formal demeanour kept him from exposing his true feelings, but it was a plea veiled as a suggestion. The truth was that he was terrified for Bruce's sake, and he could have dropped to the floor at the boy's feet and begged him to leave the city, if he had thought it would have done any good.

He hoped the lake house idea might spark something in Bruce. The Waynes had often gone there during the spring and summer months; it was a place of safety and joy. Maybe if Bruce went down there it would do him some good. Maybe it would awaken something within him that had died that night; maybe it would remind him that it was alright to allow himself to feel again. Feel something. Anything. Maybe he could even reclaim some of his childhood again, with Alfred there to watch over him. But Bruce hadn't been there since his parents died. Alfred feared that he would never go there again.

"I'm not going anywhere," Bruce declared, unconcerned and defiant. Fearless. Or foolish. "I have work to do." God, how he reminded Alfred of Thomas when he spoke like that. The same determination would come into his eyes. A leader he was. Strong and unafraid. People looked up to him. One day, Alfred knew, Bruce would inspire people too. "Besides," the boy said, turning away from him and pinning another clipping to the board, "Why would the Goat take me? There's no one to take me from."

_Except me,_ Alfred thought, but he couldn't speak the words aloud. It wouldn't be appropriate – even if it was true. He watched Bruce as he considered the map of his investigation, the ever growing web of deceit, conspiracy and corruption. He seemed to carry the weight of all of Gotham's atrocities on his shoulders, though it wasn't his burden to bear, and he didn't have to do it alone. Right now, Alfred didn't care about Gotham. It could burn to the ground for all he cared. The only thing on his mind was keeping Bruce safe.

The boy was getting to be so tall. Tall and grown up. Already the childish features of his face were becoming more defined, like those of a man. It wouldn't be long now before he was a man, and not the boy that Alfred had helped raise, was still struggling to raise. Maybe there would come a day when Bruce didn't need him anymore. How in the hell was he supposed to handle that?

Alfred stood and silently left the room. He had to begin the supper preparations; he had to make sure that Bruce ate. He knew that unless he set food in front of the boy, Bruce would forget to eat altogether. He hadn't been taking care of himself lately. But Alfred would be damned if he let his boy waste away.

"His boy?" What was he saying? He couldn't allow himself to think such things. The boy wasn't his. Bruce himself had implied as much. "No one to take me from" – those were his exact words. He didn't belong to anyone. Probably thought that no one would miss him if he was gone. Idiotic child. If anything happened to Bruce, if the Spirit of the Goat snatched him and...he didn't even want to think what, it would be Alfred who would suffer the most.

Ah, but he mustn't even ponder such things or he would never finish his duties. He must not allow himself to dwell on such fears, letting them fester and rot and haunt his mind like a disease, or he would cease to function altogether. And what would Bruce do then? Probably starve. Burn the manor down. No, he needed to stay composed, put on a reassuring face. Bruce needed him.

Or maybe it was Alfred who needed Bruce.

_**Gotham**_

Alfred didn't sleep for days. He couldn't, as long as that maniac was on the loose. For hours he exhausted himself pacing the hallways; double, triple checking locks on windows and doors; sitting and watching, outside of Bruce's bedroom door. During waking hours, he hardly let the boy out of his sight.

"What would you do if the Goat came?" Bruce suddenly asked, pausing in his perusal of a classified Wayne Industries document to glance at the butler. He had the strangest image of Alfred whacking the man with a silver serving tray.

Alfred was staring into the fireplace. "If that maniac showed up here, if he went after you, I would kill him." He looked at the boy, and Bruce saw something dangerous and savage in the man's eyes. He had never seen that side of him before.

"You should get some sleep, Alfred." Bruce looked down again, so he wouldn't have to see the dark circles around the man's eyes, the sunken frown lines around his mouth, the fierce set of his jaw.

"I'll sleep," Alfred mumbled, "when that lunatic is dead."

**_Gotham_**

The murderer wasn't dead, but he was in police custody, which would have to do. Alfred would have to content himself with the fact that the man was off the streets, and Bruce was safe.

Alfred looked at the sleeping figure and smiled. Bruce looked so innocent and peaceful like that – curled up in a ball on the sofa, placid and tranquil. A little angel one could have said, though Alfred loathed to be cliche. But sleep did allow him to be celestial in one sense, to transcend reality, to be free of his lonely existence, the nightmare of his life.

Alfred retrieved a blanket and laid it over the boy. There had been too much of this lately – spending the night in the study. Alfred swore it would permanently damage his back, sleeping on the sofa so often. But he didn't dare wake Bruce up and tell him to go to bed. These hours (if he was lucky to sleep that long) of quiet slumber were the only respite he had. The only moments of peace. He needed his rest. He was wearing himself down, working and reading and hunting for truth, finally surrendering to sleep only when he collapsed from exhaustion. No, wake him Alfred would not.

When Bruce was younger, and had fallen asleep on a couch or chair, Alfred would lift the boy up in his arms and carry him to bed. The little head would nuzzle against his shoulder, and he would feel the little heart beating and try to match his heartbeat to its steady rhythm. Bruce felt soft and warm in spaceship pyjamas that Alfred had washed just that morning – with the utmost care, because he knew they were the boy's favourite pair. He would tuck him into bed and plug in the nightlight. Then he would pause a moment at the door and whisper, "Good night, Master Bruce."

Bruce was too big now for him to carry. And since _that _night he had become such a light sleeper. He didn't want to chance it. Alfred gently brushed a stray lock of hair from Bruce's face. He would be needing a haircut soon. The butler smiled and yawned. Just a few more chores and then he would go to bed.

He checked on Bruce several times, and each time found the boy fast asleep. He could have sworn he heard the unmistakable click of the window latch closing, but when he hurried to the room all was still and secure. There was no one else in the room. Bruce slept on.

"You're getting paranoid, old chap," Alfred chided himself. But when it came to Bruce he would rather be overly cautious than take any risks. He undressed and settled into bed. No risks, he reminded himself.

_Alfred was in a long, dark corridor that he didn't recognize. There was an urgency in his step as he walked down the hall, opening one door after another, frantically. Panic rose in his chest as each new room proved empty. Whatever he was looking for, he couldn't find it. And he had never been so afraid in his life._

_ Then he heard it. "Alfred!" the shrill scream pierced the still, stale air. "Alfred! Help me!"_

_ "Master Bruce!" Alfred started running toward the sound, but the corridor seemed to stretch out before him, extending until it seemed endless. He needed to reach the boy."I'm coming for you, Master Bruce!"_

_ "Alfred!" the terror in the voice paralleled his own._

_ "I'm coming! Where are you?" Alfred threw open a door and charged through."Master Bruce!" No reply. No sound at all. The screaming had stopped._

_ This had to be the room. It was the only one that wasn't pitch black. There were candles lined on bureaus and mantles, casting an eerie glow that flickered, making the shadows appear to creep and crawl along the walls. There were red painted symbols on the walls that Alfred didn't understand, and skulls littered the floor. Some of them were horned, like rams or goats, but others were undeniably human. A magnificent four-poster bed dominated the room. The thick curtain was drawn shut._

_ Cautiously, Alfred advanced towards it and slowly pulled back the curtain, revealing a motionless figure. Its wrists and ankles were tied to the bed, and there were signs of bruising where they had struggled against their bonds. There was a pillow covering the figure's head. Alfred's heart rose to his throat as he reached forward. His fingers shook as he lifted the pillow, to reveal Bruce Wayne's pallid face._

_ The boy's lifeless blue-grey eyes stared up at him. Alfred's knees buckled under him and he collapsed on the bed. The wail that surged from him didn't sound human. It rose from the very depths of his soul, and seemed to encapsulate all of the grief in the world. He gathered the corpse into his arms and stroked back the dark hair. "Forgive me, Master Bruce," he sobbed, closing the boy's eyes. "Forgive me." He swayed back and forth, as though to rock the boy to sleep._

_ "The Goat doth murder sleep," a voice whispered, close to his ear. Alfred jerked around, tightening his embrace on the body protectively. In the shadows at the foot of the bed a figure loomed over him, the dim light half-illuminating its ghastly face. At first glance, Alfred thought it was a man, but no, the towering figure was not a man. It was a demon straight from hell. Large, curled horns extended from a deformed head; where eyes should have been two dark holes, like the abyss itself, gaped at him. The thin, black lips twisted into a smile, revealing sharp teeth._

_ All the air in the room seemed to vanish. The monster lifted a clawed hand towards the bed. "Don't touch him!" Alfred yelled._

_ A sound between a snarl and a laugh escaped the beast. It pointed a finger at the boy, and again it whispered, "The Goat doth murder sleep." Alfred looked in horror at the dead boy in his arms. Where those familiar, beloved eyes had been only moments before there were two, bloody holes._

"NO!" Alfred shot bolt upright in bed. Someone hovered over him and reached out to touch him. He grabbed for the lamp and flooded the room with light, blinding both of them.

The boy shielded his eyes with his hand. He had a blanket draped around his shoulders, and his eyelids drooped, as though he had been suddenly awakened from sleep.

"Master Bruce?" Alfred asked, as though he didn't dare believe it. The nightmare was still too fresh and vivid before him. He seized the boy in his arms and pressed him to his chest, reassuring himself of Bruce's steady pulse and warmth. He choked back a sob. "You're alright, Master Bruce. You're alright."

"Of course I am alright."

"Yes. Yes, of course you are." The words seemed to bring Alfred to his senses, and he shook off the remainder of sleep. He released the boy and straightened the blanket around his shoulders. Bruce sat on the bed and gazed at him with questioning eyes. Had Alfred ever seen a more beautiful sight?

"You woke me up. I could hear you screaming from all the way down the hall."

"Could you? Well, I am terribly sorry about that Master Bruce. Won't happen again. I didn't mean to wake you. However, now that you are up, perhaps it would be best for you to sleep in your own bed. A mattress, you know, sir –"

"Alfred."

"Yes, sir?"

"You were screaming my name." The man was silent. He picked at a loose thread on the comforter. He would need to remember to cut that off in the morning. "Was it a nightmare?"

"Yes."

Bruce nodded. He knew all about nightmares, about how the same scenes replayed over and over again – your worst fears. And you couldn't escape them, no matter how hard you tried. Not even in the light of day. Because in nightmares there was truth, and that's why they were so frightening. "Was it about the Goat?"

"Yes."

"And about me?"

"Yes."

"Will you tell me about it?" a request, not a demand. Alfred smoothed back the boy's sleep tousled hair.

"I would rather not."

"Aren't you always telling me that talking about the nightmares helps?"

"Just knowing it wasn't true is enough."

Bruce nodded, slower this time, as he let those words sink in. "Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Bruce?"

"I won't ever let anyone take me from you."

"I'm glad to hear it. I don't know what I would do if anyone... ... Well, young sir, you had best be going to bed." He started to put off his covers, but Bruce stopped him.

"I can get to bed myself. You go back to sleep." He placed his hand on the man's shoulder so that he would lie back down. Alfred started to protest, but he acquiesced and settled back against his pillow. Bruce wasn't a child anymore.

Bruce pulled the covers back over Alfred and, somewhat shyly, tucked him in. He paused before turning out the light. "There's no one left to care about me. Except you, Alfred. No one loves me but you. You're the only one who hasn't left me."

"And I never will, Master Bruce."

The boy acknowledged the truth in this statement with a slight bow of his head. Then he bent over and gently kissed the man's brow. "Good night, Alfred."

"Good night, my boy."

* * *

><p><strong>Leave your thoughts in a review!<strong>

Does anyone else think that they cast the perfect kid to play Bruce Wayne? Seriously. Not only is he super adorable, he has the angst down to a tee. And Alfred was well cast too. We really get to see his tough love side.

**Thanks for reading!  
>With my love,<br>BCA**


	2. Chapter 2: Lovecraft

_**I hadn't intended on adding anything to this fic, but I was looking through some old notes and found this short nugget. This chapter is a tag for episode 1x10: "Lovecraft" - a line from which fit unbelievably well with my previous chapter. When Alfred hears that Clyde threatened to poke out Bruce's eyes, he is reminded of his dream, and decides to teach the man a lesson:**_** you don't touch Bruce Wayne.**_**  
>Thanks to everyone who read and favorited the first chapter. =) This chapter contains some minor violence.<strong>_

* * *

><p>"She said I was cute, but Cat warned me to keep moving. She was only a little girl," Bruce explained as Alfred helped him remove the unfamiliar denim jacket. The butler didn't know where that street urchin had found clothes to fit his young master, but the boy certainly didn't look like Bruce Wayne, heir to Wayne Enterprises, when he was in them. Yes, the disguise had helped Bruce avert attention from himself, but Alfred still had his doubts about Selina, and he didn't like anything that seemed to aligned Bruce with her.<p>

"Perhaps age can be deceptive." Alfred suggested, draping the jacket over the back of a chair. "Youth does not denote an inability to act – whether for good or evil." Bruce didn't seem to be paying attention to this bit of advice, as he considered himself in the dresser mirror. His usual look of contemplation on his face. Uncommon on most children, Alfred thought, who were more likely to smile or cry. But Bruce was becoming increasingly stoic, like his father.

"Would you say I'm 'cute,' Alfred?"

The question surprised him. Bruce wasn't normally one to go on about appearances, least of all his own. Alfred raised his eyebrows. It was something a young boy would ask, a normal boy whose only concern was impressing the young lass who sat beside him in class. The words reminded Alfred that Bruce was still a child yet, and had all the same inclinations as other children, no matter how he tried to hide them.

With a thinly veiled chuckled, Alfred answered truthfully, "You are quite a handsome young man, Master Bruce. I have no doubt that you shall be quite the ladies' man when you are grown." The boy had inherited his mother's beauty.

"Come now, Alfred. I plan on remaining a confirmed bachelor." Alfred's chuckles increased, for Bruce seemed completely serious, and he could not suppress the hearty laugh that escaped him.

Bruce ignored his butler's amusement, and unzipped the hoodie. Alfred helped him remove it. Bruce winced as the fabric slid off his arms. Alfred stopped smiling.

"You alright?"

"I'm just sore; that's all."

"You have had a good deal of excitement today, haven't you Master Bruce?" Alfred asked, trying to keep his tone light, but he faltered as he noticed the purple skin peeping out from beneath the sleeve of Bruce's t-shirt.

Alfred gingerly rolled up first the left sleeve, then the right. There were large, dark, angry bruises forming along the boy's arms. The right one was decidedly worse than the left, probably from when he had landed on the stairs. "What happened?" he asked, trying to keep himself contained.

"Cat's fence, Clyde, his man restrained me. I tried to shake him off, but he was strong. I couldn't get away, and I couldn't help Cat...I suppose his grip caused most of the bruising. And then that woman grabbed me and I hit the stairs." This seemed all matter-of-fact to Bruce, who examined the shape of each bruise, trying to determine how it had been caused. But then, in a soft voice, he admitted, "Clyde threatened to poke my eyes out." He knew the man would have followed through on his threat, probably would have enjoyed it too. He pictured blades drawing ever nearer to his eyes, imagined blood splattering the floor, blinding pain and plunging into inescapable darkness.

Bruce shuddered at the thought. Somehow the threat frightened him more than the guns had – though he hated guns, saw them every night in bad dreams. The man's sadism, the danger of losing his sight, was much worse than the fear of death.

White hot anger burned within Alfred. Several weeks back, when the Spirit of the Goat had been at large, Alfred had one of the worst nightmares of his life: he had cradled Bruce's pale corpse, from which the boy's eyes had been gouged out. Just another reminder of their mortality, and how easy it could be for someone to take Bruce away from him. He had already lost Thomas and Martha. He couldn't lose Bruce too.

Clyde the fence. Alfred tucked the name away in his memory, along with the warehouse address, as he carefully helped Bruce peel off his t-shirt and button his pajama top.

"I hope it shall be a good, long while before you decide to have another adventure," Alfred said, as Bruce climbed into bed. He pulled the boy's sheets up around him. The boy didn't even protest to being tucked in.

Bruce answered with a yawn and a sigh, sinking into the softness of his pillows. "Good night, Alfred."

Alfred smoothed the hair back from the boy's head, and whispered, "Good night, my boy" before he turned out the light.

_**Gotham**_

It was two days before Alfred was able to find an excuse to slip out of the house. Two long days in which the hatred and anger within his heart festered. He couldn't have gone back to the warehouse that first night, because he imagined the police would still be there. And the day after Bruce had been so sore that he could barely get around without Alfred's help. His luck had changed, however, when James Gordon came to the manor to check in on Bruce.

Alfred was sorry to hear that Jim had lost his job, but he wondered if, now that Jim had that day off before he started at Arkham, he wouldn't mind staying with Bruce for a couple hours.

Both boy and ex-detective looked at Alfred quizzically. "Are you going somewhere, Alfred?"

"I just need to take care of something. Run a few errands. Nothing to worry about, Master Bruce." He shot Gordon a meaningful glance. "I'm sure Detective Gordon doesn't mind keeping you company while I step out."

"I really should be -" Alfred cleared his throat. "What I, uh, mean is that I'm sure I could spare a couple of hours." Alfred nodded approvingly.

As he donned his coat, Jim joined him by the front door. "Don't do anything foolish, Alfred."

"Foolish, whatever do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. There is no use in getting yourself into trouble when you can avoid it."

Alfred laughed, "James, my good man, I should think I shall be causing more trouble than getting into it."

"I've seen the way you hold a gun," Gordon said. "Just don't get carried away."

_**Gotham**_

Alfred found the man in his "office." Alfred sniffed in disgust as he scanned the room. The place was a disaster – items scattered a foot deep over the floor, furniture overturned. Clyde swore, rummaged through some papers, came up empty-handed, became frustrated, and kicked the desk as hard as he could, sparking a new slew of cursing that would have made a sailor blush. All of which affirmed Alfred of the pleasure he was going to gain in this.

He cleared his throat.

Clyde whirled around and scrutinized the butler's face. "Do I know you?"

"I suppose not. I believe you were already gone when I was last here."

"Well," the man spit, "what do you want?"

Alfred stood straight, hands clasped behind his back, and said calmly, "I'm here to file a complaint."

Clyde snorted. "A complaint? What do you think this is?"

"I should say it's a hovel, obviously."

"Listen, either state your business or get the hell outta here. I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"Yes, well, I imagine you must be. This won't take long." Alfred checked his watch and pressed a button on the side. "Right, just timing myself here."

"What are you –?"

Alfred's right fist connected squarely with the man's face. As blood gushed from his broken nose, Clyde screamed, "What the hell?" Neither his profanities, protests, or fists protected him from the butler's surging wrath.

Alfred's onslaught was well-executed, well-timed, and merciless. Hit after hit connected with its target. Though he used only his hands, Alfred inflicted significant damage. Clyde was reduced to a bloody, whimpering mess. He probably would have continued to have beaten the thug within an inch of his life, but Alfred's watch chirped at that moment.

Alfred straightened up, silenced the alarm, and smoothed out his clothes. He glanced briefly at the criminal at his feet, and grunted his disapproval. The dirty coward, pleading for his own life when he wouldn't have thought twice about hurting a twelve year old boy. He didn't know the meaning of bravery, or fear, if he thought the worst things in life were death and physical pain.

"I believe I have made my objections clear," Alfred stated, fixing his cuff-links. "If I ever hear that you have approached, threatened, or so much as breathed on Master Bruce Wayne or Miss Selina Kyle, you will wish that I had killed you this afternoon. Are we clear?"

Clyde stammered incomprehensibly.

"I beg your pardon, what did you say?"

"I got ya."

"Very well then. If you'll excuse me, I have a few errands to run, and I do hate running late."

_**Gotham**_

"Ah, Alfred, you've returned," Bruce greeted indifferently. But there was a trace of a smile in his voice. Even he couldn't conceal his pleasure at seeing his butler.

"I best be going then, Bruce." Gordon stood abruptly. He and the boy had run out of conversation topics half an hour ago, and had spent the last fifteen minutes sitting in silence. Gordon wished he had new information about the Wayne murders; being in Bruce's presence only intensified his guilt and anger at losing his job.

"Thank you for coming to see me."

Jim nodded, and turned to leave. "I can show myself out, Alfred, thanks." He lowered his voice as he passed the butler, and said, "Don't ever leave me to babysit again. Did you take care of it?"

"Yes, I did."

"Make much of a mess?"

"I believe I have the right to remain silent."

"Well, right then. I'm off. Goodbye, Bruce. Take care of yourself. You too, Alfred."

"As long as I am alive, there will always be someone to take care of young Master Wayne." Jim smiled and clapped Alfred on the back.

"I don't doubt it."

Orphan and butler looked steadily at each other. The sound of the front door slamming reverberated throughout the house. "Were you able to finish your errands satisfactorily?" Bruce asked.

"Yes, sir, I was."

"What happened to your knuckles?" Bruce gestured to Alfred's bruising hand.

"Tad careless I was, knocked over an entire grocery display. Made a terrible mess really."

Bruce tried to read Alfred's face, to unlock the secret he knew was hidden there, at the corners of his mouth. To hear the unspoken words behind this answer. But Alfred wore an indecipherable mask.

Someday, Alfred knew, he would tell Bruce everything, would open up the book of his life and let Bruce study its contents, let him see what he had spent years saving up in his heart.

But that day wasn't today.

"Shall I make you a cup of tea then, Master Bruce?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>Not as good as my first chapter. A different approach in this one, but still quite in line with Alfred's character and his relationship to Bruce. I hope you enjoyed. Leave a review in the box below!<strong>_


End file.
